At first, the applause came hesitantly—scattered claps echoing in the silence. Then, in a heartbeat, it swelled into a thunderous ovation, only to cut off as quickly as it had begun.
The moment everyone had been waiting for had finally arrived.
Dumbledore appeared.
Ignoring the Minister's frantic gestures for a private word, he strode into view, his calm presence enough to make Cornelius Fudge's face twist with barely contained fury.
Fudge couldn't understand it. Why had Dumbledore's attitude toward him shifted so suddenly? What game was the old wizard playing?
On the stands, Fudge's expression turned dark and restless. Depending on Dumbledore's next words, he was already considering whether Dementors should be dispatched to bring Hogwarts under tighter control.
But Dumbledore was smiling faintly as he pushed a wheelchair forward.
In it sat Gilderoy Lockhart.
Yes—alive, but barely.
The Defence Against the Dark Arts curse, woven long ago by Voldemort, had consumed him completely. Even before his resurrection, Voldemort had amplified Lockhart's fears and weaknesses, strengthening his hold with the Imperius Curse, then binding the Basilisk's power into his very being. Piece by piece, his spirit had been drained away until only this shell remained.
According to Madam Pomfrey, Lockhart had no more than two weeks left. His mind was shattered, his thoughts broken beyond repair.
Now he sat there, clapping along with the audience like an overexcited child, shrill laughter spilling out of him.
"They're cheering for me, aren't they? For me! I'm famous—ha! Hahaha!"
He nearly leapt from the chair in delight, grinning and waving like a performing monkey. The sight left the audience stunned. Some of his former admirers were moved to tears.
They could see the tragedy before them.
Dumbledore laid a gentle hand on Lockhart's shoulder, stilling him with quiet authority.
"My friends," Dumbledore's voice rang clear, calm as ever, "what you see before you is indeed a tragedy."
He didn't paint Lockhart as a martyr. Damon suspected he never intended to. Instead, Dumbledore told the truth—reconstructing Myrtle's death, clearing Hagrid's name, and explaining how Lockhart had been ensnared.
When Fudge pressed him, his tone sour and impatient, Dumbledore revealed the part that sent ripples of horror through the crowd: Voldemort had returned—through the curse itself.
"Impossible!" Fudge's voice cracked, his face purple with rage. "This is impossible!"
He could not—would not—accept it. To admit it was to admit he had lost control.
But Dumbledore's next words were a balm.
"Do not fear. I have defeated him again."
The Headmaster's blue eyes shone with steady resolve, though beneath them flickered disappointment. Fudge was not the leader they needed. He could preserve peace for the sake of his pride, yes—but in times of war, he would be nothing but a burden.
Still, Dumbledore swallowed the thought and set it aside—for now.
Questions erupted from the front rows.
"And what of the Fiendfyre? Was it sent by… him?"
"Yes," Dumbledore answered gravely.
"Hogwarts harbors such deadly secrets, Headmaster. How can this school remain safe?"
"I regret what has happened," he replied, "but I promise you, no such danger exists within these walls any longer. It will never happen again."
Even so, his assurances felt thinner now.
Lucius Malfoy rose sharply, voice ringing with accusation.
"How can we trust you, Dumbledore? How can we take your word as truth? This is nothing more than your own claims!"
His face was pale, his composure fraying. If Voldemort had indeed returned—even briefly—then everything Lucius had schemed for was suddenly under threat.
He was not alone in his unease. Whispers rippled through the ranks of the elite; Caliban Mortos's rise had already shaken them, and now this?
"If my word is not enough," Dumbledore said at last, "then perhaps another's will convince you."
His gaze swept the crowd before turning toward the boy beside him.
At his invitation, Damon stepped forward.
The audience erupted—gasps, camera flashes, exclamations. Damon White, the prodigy whose name had been whispered in awe, now stood before them. Dumbledore, usually commanding all attention, seemed content to step aside.
"Yes," Damon said simply, "Professor Dumbledore and I fought Voldemort together."
The name rolled from his tongue with startling calm. The hall seemed to recoil.
"He's just a child!" Fudge barked, his desperation breaking through. "Dumbledore, you brought a second-year to face that monster? This is madness!"
But few shared his outrage. Anyone who had read Damon's articles in Transfiguration Today knew better than to dismiss him as a child. Now, seeing him in person, many realized he was even more than they had imagined.
"Master White," another reporter spoke up—her curls lacquered stiff, her jaw sharp. Rita Skeeter. "Are you telling us that Dumbledore entrusted the life of this school to a boy? To you?"
Her tone was poison wrapped in honey.
Damon met her gaze briefly, then snapped his fingers.
No wand. No incantation. Just a snap.
The ground behind him surged upward, stone reshaping itself into a towering statue: Lockhart's face atop a serpent's body, flames of stone flickering across his form. Opposite stood the serene visages of Dumbledore and Damon himself.
An answer in action, not words.
Rita opened her mouth again, but before she could speak, a furious voice cut across the hall.
"Silence, fool!"
All eyes turned to the hook-nosed elder who had spoken—the President of the Transfiguration Society, a man who had held that post for fifty years, ever since Dumbledore himself had stepped down. His word carried immense weight.
The hall fell still.
Those who didn't understand looked on, baffled. Those who did trembled. A boy in his second year… already wielding Transfiguration at this level? And he had fought Voldemort alongside Dumbledore?
The realization struck them like lightning.
"Pa! Pa! Pa!"
Applause burst from the younger wizards first—loud, eager, relentless.
They didn't care if they fully understood. Damon had become their hero.
The sound spread, rolling through the crowd like a wave. Confusion ga
ve way to awe, awe gave way to pride.
One by one, then all together—
Everyone began to applaud.
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(End of Chapter)